“Maybe Fett’s sold her off to the highest bidder.”
“She can look after herself.”
“What if she—”
“We’d know. We’d feel it.”
Jag parted his lips as if he was going to expand on it, but stopped. “Okay. I’ll rely on you to tell me if you feel anything.”
Sometimes, even with his closest friends, even though he worked so closely with guys like Shevu, Ben forgot he had senses that Jag didn’t. At times like this, that must have frustrated Jag. “I’m going to draw up an evacuation plan.”
“How come you suddenly got older than me, Ben?”
“Never underestimate the calming power of a list.” It was a Shevu-ism. Shevu was full of commonsense oneliners that were easy to digest and apply. “Can you get all the senior personnel together for me? I’ve got something I have to do now, but we ought to make a start on scoping the size of the airlift and putting deadlines and names on tasks.”
Jag just looked at him. Then he broke into a big, surprised grin: “Ben, you’re middle-aged! Captain Sensible! Overnight!”
“I still reserve the right to revert to being a goofy kid and not tidy my room when the pressure’s off.”
Jag seemed to forget his black mood about Jaina’s absence for a while. “I’ll get your meeting set up, my lord …”
Ben walked on a few paces before it struck him that he’d just slipped automatically into the organizing, order-giving role that his dad often did. Because Dad never doubted I could do it. That was the kind of confidence his father could instill in him.
But he still had a task to complete first. Back in his quarters, he washed down all the surfaces with stericlean, then laid out clean flimsi sheets to cover the table so he could open the droid’s sphere.
Did a sterile area matter? The instruments and sensors had already analyzed what they needed, so contamination wasn’t an issue. He had the readouts on his datapad; he knew the chemical composition of every trace the droid had collected. But he felt he had to show some respect—it was the only word he could think of—for the procedure, and set the sphere down with a degree of reverence. It held destinies.
Hair. Ben needed a hair from his mother’s brush.
It was all he had to do to confirm that the hair collected from the StealthX was hers. Grubbing around in his father’s quarters felt like an intrusion. Luke kept the brush, a utilitarian gray plasteel thing with bristles extruded from the material, in a box with a few trinkets and other personal effects he’d grabbed from the bedroom, and Ben suddenly found himself worrying about the apartment, and if it had been left intact. His mother’s clothes and possessions were still there. He didn’t care about his own. He just couldn’t bear to think of Jacen’s bureaucrats clearing out the place or even touching anything personal.
It’s just stuff. Forget it. Shrines are unhealthy. You know Mom’s okay where she is. You’ve seen her.
Just thinking that lifted his spirits more than he would ever have believed possible. I know. I really know. Jedi suddenly seemed the luckiest beings in the galaxy. Ordinary beings never knew for sure what happened after death; many sentient species believed in some existence when the body was no more, and some didn’t, but only Jedi had the absolute proof of what happened to them—at least some, anyway. There were all kinds of priests and mystics who claimed they could put grieving families in touch with their loved ones in some afterlife, and maybe they could; but only Jedi knew and could prove it.
It seemed both a breathtaking comfort and privilege, and also sadly unfair for everyone else. Certainty. There was so little of it in life, but Ben had his.
Apart from the brush, its bristles tangled with a few long, curled, copper-red and white hairs, there were two rings, a datachip—family holoimages, Ben decided—and a platinum locket. Inside was tiny, meticulously folded flimsi sheet; when he smoothed it out on his knee, it showed signs of having once been crumpled. His mother’s writing was on it: Gone hunting for a few days. Don’t be mad at me, farmboy.
Ben stared at it, imagining her hand moving across the surface, and put it back in the locket. He took the whole box back to his quarters and laid out the brush on the flimsi to tease out a hair with a pair of forceps.
It was just a matter of inserting the hair into a small slot in the casing of the droid and letting the mechanism remove a section to process it. It took a minute or so.
Ben waited.
The droid flashed indicator lights and transmitted the analysis to his datapad. POSITIVE MATCH.
That was it, then: all over. Once he cracked the security seal on the droid, the sterile environment inside was compromised, and—if he played by the Justice Department and CSF rules of evidence—anything else tested by the same droid would not be admissible as evidence. If he wanted to test more material after that, he’d have to sign out a new unit, sealed and authenticated.
“No, that’s it, my friend,” he said, and overrode the contamination warnings. “I just want the hair.”
The droid was tiny, and its internal mechanisms were like some intricate chrono maker’s art. Ben had to use the forceps to extract the sealed chamber with an almost invisible length of his mother’s hair inside. Instead of being the glossy, coiled lock he had somehow imagined—which was crazy, there was no room for something that big even if it had been lying around in Jacen’s cockpit—it was a single hair. Ben had a brushful of them, but somehow this one mattered; he wanted to keep it. He wound the hair around his finger into a ring shape and shut it in the locket with the flimsi note. He’d tell Dad he had it when the squadron returned from Fondor.
Dumb thing for a guy to carry around, but I want to.
While Ben was copying the data to another pad for collation into a report, he checked his encrypted messages. Shevu had sent an update.
Ben, this might upset you, but you need to see it. I spoke to two Bith Senators. They witnessed an argument between your mother and JS shortly before she left Coruscant for Hapes.
Ben opened the file anyway, feeling immune to whatever might leap out at him. So … Mom had bawled out Jacen in front of witnesses. She’d even accused him of being Sith and threatened him. But Shevu knew him well enough to know what would sting.
It was over me. It was all over me. Oh no. Mom, I was never worth that. It’s too high a price.
Seeing the cold evidence that she’d warned Jacen to stay away from him threatened to crumble his fragile and newfound sense of peace. But then he looked at it through Shevu’s eyes, and wondered if the captain had thought this: that it could have looked as if Mara was the one who went after Jacen and attacked him, not the other way around.
It was subtle twist to what Ben had already thought—that his mother had gone after Jacen because she thought he was dangerous and had to be stopped—but it introduced a possibility that she might have intended to do more than arrest him.
Ben knew Mom was tough. She was a trained assassin; she didn’t shy away from fights. He wanted to cherish her memory as a blameless victim, above dark emotions like lethal vengeance.
Am I upset?
Part of him was proud that his mother had faced down a Sith Lord in combat. Part wondered how that squared with his recent understanding that vengeance wasn’t justified. And part felt devastated that he was the motive, and that if only he’d seen Jacen for what he was and shunned him, his mother might still be alive.
A message came in on the datapad. Dad had just sent it before he jumped to hyperspace.
Ben, I forgot to take Mara’s locket with me. It’s in the box in my quarters. If you have to clear out before we get back, please take good care of it.
Ben clasped the locket in his closed fist and pressed it to his chest.
“I got it, Dad,” he said aloud. “I got it.”
ADMIRAL’S DAY CABIN, IMPERIAL STAR DESTROYER BLOODFIN; RAVELIN DOCKYARD, BASTION
“How many years?” Pellaeon asked. “And I can’t get over how lovely you still are. You’ve worn very we
ll.”
Daala drummed her fingers in the exact rhythm he’d transmitted as the emergency call. She smiled; a real smile, genuine warmth. “You called. I promised you I’d always come if you used that code, just like Daerkaer. What’s the problem?”
“The Galactic Alliance.”
“Yes, Jacen Solo, unhindered by Admiral Niathal. Going for the galactic record for the fastest plunge into bloody anarchy and most stylish black outfit. So, are you all dressed up to go to Fondor?”
This was why Pellaeon was happy to admit that he was in awe of her. Daala had vanished for—what, twenty years? Twenty-five? And she still had up-to-date intelligence. He’d lost count of the times she’d been written off, apparently defeated, even presumed killed, but still kept coming back to put a serious dent in the New Republic. It was almost thrilling to watch her beat the odds so consistently, even when she was a threat.
And as far as Pellaeon was concerned, she still held an Imperial commission. “Impressive. Most impressive.”
Daala laughed. “You never could quite do the voice, but the intonation is perfect.” She reached across the gap between their chairs and patted his hand, still the accomplished seducer; not in a coy, subservient way, but with the absolute confidence of someone with real physical power who just happened to be a good-looking woman, and knew it, and understood that even the most resistant weren’t wholly immune to it. “Yes, I might prefer to live in obscurity, but I’m neither deaf nor blind.”
“I won’t even ask about your intelligence network, my dear …”
She smiled and lit up the cabin again. “I never reveal my age or my sources.”
“I’m pleased to see that the Ryn intelligence community still makes a good living.”
“And they’re not the only ones.”
“I miss our little verbal sparring sessions, my dear.”
“So do I, Gil. But I’m here. What can I do for you?”
Pellaeon had no idea if she had come empty-handed or if she still had a fleet. She took ships with her every time she escaped. Vessels and experimental weapons technology had vanished into the Maw Installation when Daala was running it as Grand Moff Tarkin’s bit on the side, as the bitterly resentful male officers had called her—one of the less offensive names she’d been called—and Pellaeon had no idea how much she could roll out today. It might all have been rust, dust, and perished plastoids; it might have been the most advanced fleet in the galaxy, just waiting for the ideal moment to emerge and smash the concept of republic for good. He had no way of knowing unless she showed him.
She was still here despite the Yuuzhan Vong War, and that told him a great deal.
“I’m asking you to watch my back,” he said. “At Fondor, and probably for some time after that. Perhaps some sweeping up if Solo can’t hold what he tries to grab. If he keeps winning, I want a counterweight ready to throw in before he turns on us like he turned on his allies and family. If he gets too cocky and loses, we’ll have to step in and restore order, because the Confederation isn’t capable of forming a galactic administration, and the remaining unaligned worlds are a complete shambles.”
“We do at least know how to run things.”
“How much weight can you add, Daala?”
She crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair. The eye-patch bothered him. It wasn’t because it disfigured her—it lent her a rather raffish chic, in fact, and gave her one visible eye the impact of an emerald laser—but because he couldn’t imagine what kind of injury required it. Eyes could be replaced. And she wore the patch as if she had been used to it for a long time.
“I can,” she said at last, “have a full fleet at Fondor with one standard hour’s lead time.”
“How much? How many?”
“Let’s just say I don’t waste resources I find, and a lot of worlds the GA doesn’t notice owe me favors after the Vong War. The fleet won’t be modern, but it will be deadly. Does that answer your question?”
Pellaeon thought of all the prototypes and technology that the old Empire had funded and that had vanished and never seen the light of day. Daala must still have had capital ships in readiness; she’d escaped with Scylla, at the very least. But a battle was a lot less about big ships these days, and more about flexibility and agility—small vessels could be much more of an asset.
“Jacen Solo has half the GA Fourth Fleet,” he said.
Daala nodded. “Fondor can rival that firepower. Not beat it, but it can give a good account of itself.”
“But the GA hasn’t committed enough ground troops to take and hold Fondor, just the orbitals. Solo’s heavy on ordnance, though.”
“So he’s either going specifically to destroy their fleet, or he’s not too choosy about the state he leaves the planet in.” Daala hadn’t touched her syrspirit. “Because if he doesn’t destroy their fleet and subdue the planet, he won’t be able to hold the orbitals. He’ll be occupying them and fending off attacks—busy job. Unless he plans to destroy them as well.”
“If you’re asking me if I know his ultimate intention, no, I don’t.”
“And you’re committing Imperial forces on that basis?”
“I’ve gone into battle with far less.”
“And we’ve both seen governments start wars with no idea how they plan to end them, or even what to do once the initial targets have been taken. Gil, I hope that all you’re planning to do is stand there holding Solo’s coat while he has his scrap, waiting to see who wins.”
Pellaeon believed in the value of his word. Integrity was a matter of honor, but it was also a pragmatic thing: if you did what you said you would, then your threats carried as much weight as your promises, and your pledges to allies secured tangible benefits. A liar lost friends fast in war. Pellaeon walked the fine line between not admitting that he had doubts about Jacen and contingency plans if things went wrong for him, and misleading an ally.
If Bastion were attacked, would he risk his fleet for us?
Pellaeon was sure the answer was no. Jacen Solo flew by the seat of his Force-sensitive pants, which meant conventional planning with him was impossible. Pellaeon’s only option was to be ready to pick up the pieces. The prize of Bilbringi and Borleias was looking increasingly irrelevant, a free gift that had a price tag all the same.
“Gil, are you still with me?” Daala asked, tapping his knee.
“Sorry, my dear.”
“Do you want me to make you feel better about getting into this spot?” She stood up as if to leave. “This is about your sense of responsibility. Your home is safe, but there’s a riot in the street. You feel you have to step outside and stop it. It might even damage your home if you don’t.”
“I’m not sure if that’s welcome clarity, or indulgent comfort for an old man, Daala.”
“And then you’ve got your greedy children clamoring to loot the stores that the riot has trashed. The Moffs are a handful. You should try my method of enforcing consensus.”
“Ah, my queen of analogies …” Daala had brought feuding Imperial warlords into line by gassing them. She never wasted time. “I’ll try reason first, I think.”
“I have no love for Moffs, Gil, and I plan to kill some of them.” Daala opened the hatch and stepped out into the passage. “Show me the ship.”
Daala was conspicuous. She didn’t seem to care. By now, word of her arrival in port would have reached some of the Moffs, and those who weren’t immediately panicking or huffing with outrage would at least be asking why she was back. Pellaeon escorted her through Bloodfin’s decks as if she were a routine visitor, showing her the most interesting aspects of the Turbulent-class design; the young crew had no idea who she was, but some of the veteran Moffs would recognize her, and all would know the name Daala.
Pellaeon didn’t have to tell them about the assets she was ready to contribute to the Empire. If some Moffs were already being wooed by the GA before he was formally told a deal was on the table, then Jacen would get to hear what Daala’s role might be. P
ellaeon wanted his tactical surprise if he needed it.
“Are you serious about killing Moffs, Daala?”
“Yes,” she said, admiring a spotless cannon bay that gleamed. She ran her hand over a bulkhead and followed the curved line of the cannon housing. “Because they killed Liegeus. When I work out the full list of who was behind it, then I’ll call them to account. Today I’m here for you, and, to a lesser extent, for the Empire.”
“Oh … I’m so very sorry. So very sorry.” Liegeus Vorn had been her first love, a pilot—something of a rogue, to be frank—and when Daala had retreated to Pedducis Chorios after yet another spectacular escape from a lost battle, she had found him again. The lovers had been separated for years. It was upliftingly romantic, the promise of rediscovered happiness that every broken heart secretly longed for. “How, and when?”
“A thermal detonator. I’ve waited five years to pursue the matter.”
Daala collected enemies. It went with the job. Her patience was frightening. “Is this how you acquired your eye injury?”
“I still don’t know if he was the main target, to spite me, or if he was collateral damage in an attempt on my life,” Daala said, seeming to ignore the question. “I shall find out when I identify all the conspirators, and I’ll make sure it takes some painful time. Then I’ll have my eye repaired properly, but not before that day, so that I don’t forget.”
It didn’t bode well for the Empire that its new ally was still at war with some—perhaps most—of its leaders. The Moffs had always been ferociously hostile, initially because she was a woman, and later because she was Daala, and she did not suffer fools or less talented officers gladly. They were going to regret it now. It was their own fault. She never forgot, forgave, or gave up.
“Had I known, I wouldn’t have disturbed you.” He put his hand gently on her back to steer her this way and that. They were approaching the portside brow again, and an officer of more mature years did a double take, a real head-turn followed by slightly parted lips. Pellaeon met his eyes, and it was clear that he thought he knew who she was. “Just be aware that some of the Moffs are a little more enlightened these days, and you might even find them helpful. A powerful woman doesn’t send them screaming to defend their manly territory. Lecersen, for one. The new breed.”
Revelation Page 21
